


Reminder to Self: Revenge Is Best Served When You're Not Drunk

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: The Cape (2011)
Genre: Future Fic, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-08
Updated: 2011-03-08
Packaged: 2017-10-16 19:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life as a masked vigilante is hard. Especially when you're hungover and can't remember what you did last night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reminder to Self: Revenge Is Best Served When You're Not Drunk

Sometimes Vince wishes he were an actual superhero with actual superpowers. Superman, he bets, never wakes up with a head-busting hangover in a bed that's decidedly not his own.

His memories of the past night are fuzzy at best, but he used to be a cop – a pretty damn good cop, at that – so he goes with what he has and sees how far he can take it from there.

There's, _one_ , the fact that Dana and Travis got married yesterday. Which leads to, _two_ , Vince getting blind drunk in a shitty little bar near the harbor. He remembers, _three_ , lamenting the unfairness of life in general and swearing bloody revenge on Peter Fleming, who took away his life and his family and everything he ever held dear.

Steps four to nine (he hazards a guess at the number) elude him, though he thinks he remembers putting on the cape at some point during the night. Though he might be wrong about that, because somehow all of this brought him to, _ten_ , waking up in a sun-flooded stranger's bedroom dressed only in his boxers with his cape nowhere in sight. Also, _eleven_ , the lower half of his face hurts more than the hangover deserves credit for, which suggests that he may or may not have been in a fight.

There's not much else he can deduct without any further input or a miraculous return of his memories, so he swings his legs off the bed and goes to explore his surroundings.

The room next door turns out to be an office, which in itself wouldn't be a problem, except for the man casually sitting on a small table, with some sort of fancy handheld computer balanced on his knees while he's sipping what Vince hopes to be cyanide but is probably coffee.

A quick look around confirms the sinking suspicion that Vince is, in fact, somewhere on floor two-hundred or so in the Ark Tower. Because the presence of Peter Fleming wasn't a clear enough indication for that, really.

It's also too fucking cold in the room. Possibly because one of the huge floor to ceiling windows behind the desk is missing and is currently being replaced by two men, neither of which so much as bats an eyelash about some half-naked guy walking into the office of the CEO of Ark Industries.

Just when Vince is wondering if he can make a run for it before anyone notices him, Fleming looks up from the screen, which probably contains the outline of his evil plan for world domination. Or maybe the morning paper – Vince can't be sure. He expects some sort of reaction from Fleming, but he really doesn't look particularly surprised to see Vince, and that in itself should be reason enough to worry.

"You look like shit," he says conversationally, in lieu of a greeting. "Though, not too bad for a dead man, I suppose. Coffee?"

And that's just bizarre. Peter Fleming doesn't make snarky small talk and offer him coffee. Except, apparently, he does.

Vince gingerly sits down in the chair opposite Fleming. The black leather sticks uncomfortably to his skin, reminding him acutely of his state of undress. He tries very hard not to say the first thing that comes to his mind, which is 'Where the fuck is my cape? And the rest of my clothes.' The second thought he has, however, slips out before he can stop it.

"I was going to kill you."

Which maybe isn't the sort of thing you tell a guy with no qualms about taking a life when your best weapon is currently missing.

Fleming, however, doesn't appear to take offense and merely raises an eyebrow.

"Oh, so that's what you were trying to achieve." He sounds moderately amused. "I thought you must have had some plan other than to come smashing through my window, fall on your face and bleed on my carpet. It seemed a little random, even for you. You'll pay for the window, by the way."

"Send the bill to my expense department," Vince snipes back, while his mind is still trying to catch up with the events of last night.

If Fleming wasn't lying – and frankly, at the moment that story sounds fairly likely, all things considered – he supposes this would cover steps four to eight, though it still doesn't explain how exactly he ended up here, like this, enjoying the dubious hospitality of a man who tried to have him killed in the past. Several times, in fact.

And he really doesn't know how to ask, but he was _drunk_ last night and he woke up _semi-naked_ in what he _hopes_ is Peter Fleming's guest-room, and Fleming doesn't seem to be volunteering any information on his own.

"Did we—" he begins, and that's as far as he gets. Maybe he doesn't really need to know. He's not sure he could handle the answer. He takes a quick gulp of the coffee Fleming offered him, hardly even noticing that it's unpleasantly bitter and hot enough to scald his tongue.

Fleming frowns at him. "Did we what?"

"Never mind."

The uncomfortable expression on his face must be answer enough, though, because Fleming's expression clears and he starts laughing. "God, no. I do have standards. People who are drunk out of their minds and pass out face-first on the floor usually don't meet them."

And, okay, that's sort of comforting. But it's also frustrating because the entire situation makes no sense whatsoever. "Then why am I here? Why not, I don't know, slit my throat with a letter opener and have your minions put my body into a dumpster? Or better yet, just throw me back out of the window I came crashing in through? What's your deal?"

Fleming shrugs. If Vince didn't know better, he'd say the man looks slightly awkward. "You did save my life before. I figured I should repay the favor. Now we're even."

Which is just about the most ridiculous thing Fleming ever told him.

"Not killing me isn't the same as saving my life," Vince grinds out between clenched teeth and wonders if he could just beat Fleming to death with that computer. Or the coffee cup.

Fleming airily waves his objection away. "Technicalities."

At this point, Vince realizes that he's not going to get a straight answer out of Fleming. Really, the whole thing is just too bizarre, and he wants nothing more than to forget it ever happened.

He runs a tired hand over his face and presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. His headache has intensified tenfold these last couple of minutes, and he highly doubts that it's just the hangover anymore.

"Look, can I just have my clothes back so I can get out of here?" He bites back the _please_ that's on the tip of his tongue. He won't give Fleming that.

Since he's clearly unable to be anything but infuriating, Fleming smirks at him. "I kind of like you better like this," he drawls, making his point by looking Vince up and down with a deliberate lack of subtlety.

Vince grinds his teeth and silently counts to ten to stop himself from strangling the guy with his bare hands. "Fleming—"

"Relax, you get your precious cape back. I can't have you leaving my office naked, can I? People would _talk_."

Fleming is mocking him, and Vince knows it, but at least he's getting up to go to his desk, where he unlocks a drawer and retrieves a bundle of clothes that he throws at Vince. Luckily, both the cape and his mask are among them. Vince breathes a quiet sigh of relief, clutching the cape as if it were a dear friend he'd missed for a long time.

He's fumbling with his pants when Fleming speaks again. "Oh, and Faraday..."

His name coming from Fleming's lips sounds _wrong_ and reminds him that he used to have good reasons to keep his identity a secret, including and _especially_ from Peter Fleming. It can't be helped now, obviously, but he'd rather not be reminded of it.

"Don't call me that," he says sharply. "What is it now?"

He's sure that, a few seconds ago, Fleming was over at the desk, which is halfway across the room. When he looks up, though, he's right in front of him, so close that they practically breathe the same air. It's too close for comfort and _fuck_ , he still doesn't have his cape on and there's no weapon within reach.

The attack he's halfway expecting never comes, though. Fleming seems calm and completely at ease. "You're not still drunk, are you?" he asks, curiously.

"No, but I ki—"

'I kind of wish I was,' is what he wants to say, but the rest of the sentence gets cut off when his back hits the wall and Fleming's mouth comes down on his. His brain reacts sluggishly but his body doesn't, and by the time he's caught up with what's happening, it's too late to push Fleming away because he's already kissing back. At least that's his story and he's sticking to it.

For a psychotic megalomaniac who would rather have Vince dead, Fleming kisses surprisingly well. His hand curves around Vince's neck in a hold that's firm but not bruising, fingers sprawling across the jaw line. And his mouth—fuck, his mouth is moving against his own with just the right kind of pressure, insistent and a little possessive, as if he's making a point, as if he wants to imprint this moment deep in Vince's memory so that every future encounter between them will only serve as a reminder.

The wall is cold against his back, raising goose-bumps on his skin, but Fleming's warm body pressing against his front makes up for it. There's something undeniably arousing about the fact that he's still half-naked while Fleming is dressed immaculately, crisp white shirt and dark red tie under what's probably a ridiculously expensive suit jacket, the soft material sliding over his skin.

For a moment that stretches out entirely too long, Vince forgets everything else: Dana, and the two guys replacing the window, and the fact that Peter Fleming is an evil man who needs to be brought to justice.

It all comes crashing back down on him the moment Fleming takes a step backwards, cool air hitting his skin where their bodies were touching just a second before, instantly reminding him of who he is and what he's doing.

He holds up a hand, trying to collect his thoughts. "This isn't— We can't— I— Fuck, Fleming, what the hell was that?"

Fleming, the evil bastard, is smirking. He gingerly touches his lips and gives Vince a speculative look.

"Think of it as an opening gambit."

* * *

End.


End file.
